


Ghosts

by woollen_pharaohs



Category: True Detective
Genre: M/M, Past Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Rehabilitation, Smoking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-16
Updated: 2014-10-16
Packaged: 2018-02-21 08:58:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,338
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2462381
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/woollen_pharaohs/pseuds/woollen_pharaohs
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Set post-season 1. </p><p>Marty's decided the best way to get on with life is to cut Rust out of it, after all, Rust is the sole problem why his life is so messed up anyway. Since that hospital night, his life has been simple, working slow days, restlessly sleeping through hot summer nights. It's lonely but it's what Marty wished for isn't it? Then he gets a call and history repeats itself.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ghosts

**Author's Note:**

> 8 months on and I cannot stop thinking about this show and this pairing and being ridiculously attracted to 2012 Rustin Cohle?? And I keep wondering about what happened to them after the events of season 1, so here's another take on what could've happened. I'm probably a bit too in love with Rust living in some desolate country area completely separate from the bullshit of the world and probably a bit too in love with Marty marveling in all that's wonderful and weirdly creative and surprisingly passionate about Rustin. Anyway, hope you like it!

**1.**

The air conditioner spurts out its last puff of cold air and resorts to exuding grumbles in admission to its rusty faults. Marty kicks off his bed sheets and throws open his bedroom windows, the clammy, dirty air plastering onto his skin. He knew the air con didn’t have much left in it, but why, of all summer nights, couldn’t it have waited til morning?

Marty collapses on top of his bed covers, the sounds of sirens piercing his ears, keeping him in a state of perpetual wakefulness. He doesn’t really _need_ to sleep, he sets his own hours, works with what’s appropriate for a self-employed middle-aged man. But keeping that schedule was important to him, structured his life, and god damn he’s too fucking tired to get out the tool box but not sleepy enough to fall asleep.

Life’s a bitch right?

A firetruck passes the streets down below, mixes in with the siren of a police car at just the right pitch that the sound is frantic, metallic. The blood in his veins turn to magma, frustration bursting and he lurches out of bed, kicking his toe on the doorway as he passes through.

“I fucking hate the city!”

Marty throws down the toolkit on his bed. He fishes out a screw driver then goes to stand on a chair to unscrew the air con cover. At this moment, his house phone starts to go off. Marty laughed incredulously as he ignored the ringing, continued to unscrew the bolts of the air con lid. But as soon as the ringing dies out it begins again and Marty’s mouth turns downward, if this is a telemarketer he may as well throw his phone set out the window.

“What?” He answers, pressing the phone hard to his ear.

“Marty…”

Sirens echo against his walls and Marty feels dizzy, middle-aged deafness cottoning on, “what?” he repeats.

“Is this Hart? Yeah, look, you’re mate – er, what? Ex-colleague? Fuck Rust would you just _sit down_? Jesus, your man’s too drunk!”

A hole opens up in Marty’s stomach, the contents spilling out onto the cheap, hotel grade carpet and as the emptiness encompasses Marty, the space leaves way for shame and guilt and Marty’s standing on a cliff in the fog, unsure where the edge is and if he walks too far this way or that way, he’s going to fall off for sure.

Marty hadn’t talked to Rust since wheeling him off into dawn after the intervention at carcossa, not because Rust had done anything wrong but because Marty wanted to finally cut ties with that horrible history in his life. The case was solved, the right culprits in jail and Marty could go on with his PI work in peace. Rust had been his friend, maybe at one point Rust truly had been his friend, a good partner at least, but that didn’t mean he had to keep up contact with him. Didn’t mean he had to call every week and check up on him like Rust was his dying grandma or something. Didn’t mean Marty felt like answering the phone whenever he saw Rust’s caller ID pop up on his cell.

“Call a taxi then mate,” Marty says finally.

“Do you know where we’re calling from? There’s nothing here but a bar and a half hundred houses, there’s no taxi service here,” the man mocks, “You’ve gotta come get him, he’s a mess and I’m not about to drive him back to his shack. Place is too far, you’re his emergency contact, he’s _your_ responsibility. An’ if you don’t come get him I’m gonna have to call the police. Won’t they be happy to know he’s drinking from the tap again.”

Marty’s voice is foreign, not his own, like he’s listening to a recording and wondering, is that really how he sounds? “I’ll be there as soon as I can.”

 

**2.**

Rust cranks the car window open slightly, the air rushing passed a deep whistle. Any and all breath exuded by Rust in the histories of him, seated in Marty’s passenger seat, are breathes lost in the wind out the window. The air is cold and Rust grunts, winds the window back up again, a sigh from the past slipping through just before the gap closes.

Marty licks his lips, grips the leather of the steering wheel with his stiff knuckles. “You shouldn’t drink so much. You’re an old man now Rust, your body can’t take as much as it used to.”

Rust hunches down in the seat, hangs his head in the crook of the space between the seat and the headrest. Marty watches in the rear view mirror as Rust rolls his eyes, for all the philosophies Rust spews, Marty always thought he was a kid.

“Age is a social construct Marty.”

“Here we go.”

“There are cultures across the globe, Africa, Asia, where age isn’t a concept devised by living people. Not in the way we count birthdays down like a ticking bomb.”

“So you want to live in Africa now?”

Rust’s jaw clenches, “Age shouldn’t dictate what a man can and can’t do.”

“Oh I get it. You’re having some kind of midlife crisis, is that why you called me of all people to get you? Do you realize Rustin, how fucking far it was for me to drive to that desolate bar? God, this night of all nights. I should have known. And here you are, having got too fucking drunk to even direct me to your shack, yet you can tell me that old folk like us should drink like we’re _sixteen_.”

Rust glances at Marty and says in a drawl, “didn’t say we _should_ , said that we _could_.”

“Well what in the hell were you thinking Rust?” Marty barks, “going drinking that much. Jeez, I knew you drank hard, but you’ve got to look after yourself after your injury man. If you go on drinkin’ day and night, you’re going to kill yourself.”

Rust swallows dust, a quiet painful noise.

“Do you want to die Rust?” Marty accuses, knuckles tight against the steering wheel.

Rust purses his lips, but as he turns to face the passenger seat window, Marty sees in the reflection of the rear view a flutter of Rust’s eyelashes, reflecting his insecurities.

 

    **3.**

Marty parks in the resident’s reserved parking and drags Rust to the elevator. He rests Rust against the wall of the elevator and smiles in relief, thinking back on his decision to not rent the apartments with only staircases. Rust is wrong, age dictates whether or not Marty can climb a stack of staircases every day and night, and Rust better be thankful Marty’s taking him up the elevator instead of dragging him from his feet up the concrete stairs.

He fiddles with his keys at the door and manages to push it open without dropping his passed out ex-partner on the stained carpet of the hallway, no matter how much he wish he had. Marty pulls Rust into his apartment with the support of the sweaty wall between them. He takes Rust down the hall to his bedroom, plops the man on his bed. Marty isn’t as well off as he used to be, he’s no fancy detective wealthy enough to afford a luxurious apartment in the inner city. He’s on the outskirts in a small one bedroom, one bathroom apartment. They trick you that way, real estate agents, charging extra for a bedroom which is more like a room with a bed and a kitchenette and a couch, meant to be passed off as an ‘open-plan’ and ‘modern’ apartment. Well, it’s not like Marty needs anything else. As long as he’s got a TV and a working telephone Marty’s fine. Although, a functioning air conditioner would be quite nice too.

The morning sun peeks through Marty’s open windows and he can feel the place getting hot again. He closes the windows, draws the curtains. He could never decide if having the curtains drawn or open was meant to keep the room cold or warm, didn’t seem to matter either way when his curtains were as thin as the white hairs on his head. Marty begins arranging Rust on his bed in a safe position so that Rust won’t choke on his own vomit in his sleep, takes off Rust’s boots. He swears they’re the same boots Rust wore back in ’95, now worn and ripped.

When Marty drapes a thin sheet over his ex-partner’s form, Rust’s forehead crinkles and he speaks in a voice, crackly like Marty’s back when he stands straight, “you could’ve checked my license.”

Marty yawns, speaks through it anyway, “huh?”

Rust rolls onto his back, clears his throat, “my license,” Rust’s pauses, expecting Marty to say something.

Marty saunters over to his couch, eases his back onto it and gets comfortable, “what about it?” he asks, aloof.

“It has my address on it. You know Marty, for a detective, you’re not a very good one,” Rust says in that callous manner that brings Marty back to the day he first got a conversation out of the man in ’95, leather boots shiny and cared for.

“Shut the fuck up Rustin. I’m doin’ you a courtesy in allowing you to stay here at my humble abode while you sober up. Now let me get some sleep so I can drive you back home later without having the almighty urge to slam the car into a tree, alright?”

Rust chuffs a short laugh but doesn’t say anything. Marty shoves a cushion behind his head, swears, and tries to nod off in the clammy heat of his room, enjoying the silence delivered from his ex-partner.

 

  **4.**

The two sleep through the afternoon and by sundown, Marty thinks it’s about time he got his apartment to himself again. He shakes Rust awake who wakes up wide eyed, crazed like he’s been dreaming. Rust stinks but honestly Marty can’t wait to get Rust out of his hair so he says nothing about it, barks at him to get in the car, we’re leaving.

The night rolls in and the pollution hangs low, keeping the heat of the city compacted low even around the skyscrapers. Rust cranks down the windows of Marty’s car, the stench of petrol flooding in.

“Why are you doing this Marty?” Rust questions, lips tight.

Marty quickly glances at Rust then back to the road, gotta keep eyes and ears focused when driving in the city. To this day he remembers the lesson his pops taught him when teaching him how to drive. In the city, the only way you’re going to survive is to keep in mind that everyone else is trying to kill you. Drive simultaneously aggressively and cautiously, aware that the 4wd a metre in front of you could brake at any given second. It took Marty a long time to realize that the advice his pops gave him when he was a teenager wasn't just for driving, but for life. People can’t be trusted, everyone’s out there to kill you and the only way you’re going to survive is to fight for what’s rightfully yours, keep your territory, don’t back down, don’t let people in.

But then there’s Rust. Somehow trusting Rust was something he found came almost natural, like the loyalty they shared was an agreement they both unknowingly signed. Even in 2012 when the police got the crazed idea that Rust had something to do with the murders, Marty never once thought Rust had anything sick to do with it. He trusted this man more than he trusted his own wife. The Dora Lange case, the yellow king, through the graveyard of thorns and nightmares, Rust relied on the history of Marty, the shared knowledge and understanding to solve the case. Rust was mutual and understood Marty like no one ever could, he helped Marty in a way Rust probably didn’t intend on, didn’t intend on Marty finally understanding his true self. And when Rust got hurt, Marty made the mistake that wheeling Rust out of the hospital in his wheelchair would be the last he’d ever see of him. That was definitely Marty’s biggest mistake. There was no way in hell Rust was going to rehabilitate on his own. Marty abandoned him in his time of need, Rust had never done that to him.

Rust’s question was lost in the air now, sucked in by the motor, discharged out into the city, the hot wind coming in from the gaps in the windows an invitation for more questions. Why are you doing this? Why are you helping me? Why did you abandon me? Why, why, why.

“Because you asked,” Marty says finally.

 

**5.**

Marty shouldn’t judge since Rust’s home isn’t any better than his. Rust really wasn’t joking when he described it as a shack. Looks like just a bunch of metal and wood thrown together to give a lonely old man a bit of shelter. Marty doesn’t know if the place looks better outside than it does on the inside. Rust’s always been tidy, organised, to the point that his house almost looks septic, completely clean and sterile. He’s never been one for feng shui, not that Marty was either. But at least Marty’s got the sense to put a mattress on an actual bed frame, in an actual bedroom when he’s got the space available.

“What do you use the bedroom for?” Marty asks, peering inside the empty room, noting the clear absence of a television set.

“Nothing,”

Marty folds his arms, watches as Rust eases himself down onto the mattress, “what do you mean _nothing_?”

“I mean nothing. Don’t have nothing to put in there, no reason to go in there, so I don’t use it for anything. Girls like this mattress just fine if that’s what you’re asking.”

Marty pauses, “do they? You seeing anyone?”

Rust breathes steadily, rakes his fingers through his wiry hair and proceeds to tie it into a ponytail, “No, I’m not destined for that path,”

“Destiny?” Marty laughs, and he laughs so hard that he has to clutch his ribs, holds them in place.

Rust rolls his eyes, gestures to the fridge in the corner, “grab me a beer would ya Marty?”

Marty wipes his eyes, still laughing, and opens up the fridge. He stops laughing when he sees the kind of diet the man’s on. And Rust had the audacity to be discontent about getting Drive-Thru on the way down. Marty kicks the fridge door closed as he swivels around, beer bottles rattling against the cheap plastic shelves.

“Man, this has got to stop. You really have some sort of death wish don’t you?”

“Just give me a fucking beer man. I need to dream.”

“God damn it Rustin, you promised me after the injury you were gonna give up, try to find that light you know, get away from that vision shit, makes you sick.” Marty says, concern masked by anger.

The words boil out of Rust’s mouth, a kettle left on the stove, roaring because no one’s around to turn the flame down, “ _Promises_? Marty, are you fucking kidding me?”

“Oh here we go with one of your monologues,” Marty interjects.

Rust glares at Marty then speaks in his careful, even tone, kettle water evaporating, “you can’t tell me you were fine after what happened to us, that you didn’t drop me off from the hospital that night, didn’t walk away from me glass composed on the outside, but molten sand on the inside? You thought a promise from Martin Hart was gonna get me through this shit. I tried to stay away from the bottle, I meditated, I exercised, I tried to keep control but god damn it Marty, I had _no one_. Much to my life philosophy, people need people, I needed you, and the only time you answer my calls is midnight one July night when the bartender’s sick of my drunk antics.”

“I’m here now,” Marty says meekly.

“Yeah well that’s just fucking swell isn’t it Marty. Good job on having the decent human thought to take a sad drunk home. Good on you man.”

“Don’t lecture me on being a decent human being Rust,” Marty snaps.

“Fuck man, that’s not what this is about!” Rust exclaims, falling back on his bed.

“Then why am I fucking here? Why did I fucking bother in picking up a sad drunk, like you said, and taking him home. Why the fuck would I do that if I didn’t fucking care about you?”

“Because you’re doing it out of courtesy, you don’t believe it, you’ve done it because you think you’re meant to,” Rust says, staring up at his ceiling.

Marty scrunches his lips up then strides over to the fridge, “if I didn’t care about your _well-being_ , would I do this?” he says as he swings open the fridge, takes out bottles and begins smashing them on the ground.

Glass splinters across the wooden floor, beer seeps through the cracks and Rust immediately sits up at the sound of the smash, alarmed. Marty catches Rust’s eyes and pointedly takes out another bottle, pegs it at the floor.

“You’ve got to stop drinking man! Getting rid of the root problem is the only way you’re going to stop.” Marty’s shrill now and he feels frivolous but it’s too late now, too far into the show to stop.

He smashes another bottle, glass shattering across the floorboards, shards wedging in the grooves of the wood. Rust lurches toward Marty, grabs onto his arm before he can destroy another one of his beers, and twists Marty around in a trained technique to pin him secure. Marty struggles, starts to kick, intent on destroying the fridge’s entire contents, chockers full of beer.

“I’m just doing this out of courtesy man, not that I care that you’re wasting your life away on alcohol or anything you piece of shit,” Marty spits.

Rust’s face is screwed up tight and he speaks hoarsely, “don’t be such a _child_.”

Marty writhes under Rust’s grip, blood fuming in his veins. Now he remembers why he doesn’t talk to Rust anymore, he can be so fucking _patronising_.

“ _Fuck_ , reading a bunch of serial murder books don’t make you above anyone.”

Rust’s grip loosens and Marty takes the opportunity to wriggle free. He takes a whole case off the shelf and slams it straight onto the floor. Rust grabs him again, holds him tight against his body.

“Would you fucking stop Marty, you’re going to hurt yourself.”

Marty struggles in Rust’s grip, and thanks to Rust’s training for undercover work Rust has a good hold on him, keeps him stiff and secure. Marty hopes there’s a crack in his memory, mirroring Rust’s age, a crack which he can slip his body through and escape, or at least get the upper hand. But, as ever, Rust remains cool and steady, holds him tight, Marty’s back to his chest. Rust has him still, and in time Marty feels the boiling become temperate, calm washing over him. Instead, he feels a pang of guilt, of shame and _fuck_ , why is it always Rust that makes him face his demons?

Blood drums in Marty’s hands, skin slick with beer and the cool condensation from the fridge. “I’m sorry,” Marty breathes.

Rust nods and as Marty’s silent, still, he feels Rust’s breathing too, his heart beating, his body around him. Marty falls lax in Rust’s arms and as easy as the beer spilt from cracked glass, he says, “I’m sorry I left you. I … I was afraid. I thought I needed to move on. You needed me and I… I abandoned you.”

A portion of Rust’s wiry hair falls on Marty’s shoulder as Rust presses his forehead against the back of Marty’s head. Marty almost doesn’t hear it, or thinks he misheard it - the words spoken into his hair, movement of lips against the skin of his scalp.

“Please stay,”

Marty doesn’t say anything in reply, still entirely unsure if he heard anything at all. Then Rust lets go, heaves a sigh, or a deep breath, a hitch maybe, Marty’s feeling too dizzy to tell. He leans on the fridge to recover, licks his lips.

“I’ll help clean up, then I should probably go, got work to do.”

Rust frowns slightly, jaw clenching. He reaches for the broom behind the fridge, brushing past Marty, and begins sweeping. Marty never thought he’d see Rust do such a domestic act. They get the glass in the bin and pad up as much of the beer with paper towel as they can. Rust has this air about him, his movements are stiff and cold, edgy. Marty offers to mop it for him but Rust refuses him, says he’ll do it later, that he’s kept Marty long enough.

At the door of Rust’s shack, Rust leans on the wall, arms folded, he doesn’t look at Marty.

“I’m sorry again, about the mess… of things,” Marty says waving his arms around, “I’m really meant to be somewhere tomorrow. Meeting a client. I’ll come back, on the weekend, I think.”

“Checkin’ up on me like I’m some kind of addict?” Rust says gruffly as he fishes out a cigarette from his breast pocket, lights it up.

Marty thinks in some other life, Rust could’ve been a cowboy. Leaning on doorways, chewing a bit of straw, hat hanging low over his face. He’s got the attitude just right too.

Marty grins and makes his way to his car, shouts over his shoulder “yeah, well you kind of are,”

Marty stops, turns around again. Rust is still there, aged rust in the corrugated iron outer walls, “call me, if you need to. I’ll answer this time,” Marty says with a soft smile.

“Is that a promise?”

 

     **6.**

Marty calls the following night, just to make sure Rust’s okay. It’s four days til the weekend and Marty’s sickly afraid that he’s going to drive up to Rust’s place and find him bloated with beer, and drugs probably, fucking high and out of this world. The days itch past and finally Saturday arrives. He gets up early, drives through the sun rise.

They never did set a time.

Rust doesn’t seem to mind being woken up, even though Marty probably should have called. He just seems content that Marty even came. Marty doesn’t really know what to do, asks if Rust has any errands to do, suddenly aware that this man’s probably got a life outside of drinking. Turns out he doesn’t really. Marty decides then, that his job is to keep Rust away from the liquor, and if supervising him is part of that, then he’s just gonna have to put up with Rust’s boring life. Suppose it’s better than his own.

He struggles to make Rust dinner out of things in his fridge, reckons he should be on some cooking show for managing to make something edible out of a hobo’s fridge. The visit is otherwise quiet, low brow. Rust reads a book most of the time, makes casual conversation. When Rust wants to he can be a really good person to talk to, you know, when he doesn’t want to talk about his philosophies on life and such.

Marty sleeps in the bedroom, the ‘spare’ room, on a bunch of sheets because that is literally all Rust has in terms of a spare bed. Next time, if there’s a next time, he makes a mental note to bring a sleeping bag, or a fold out or something actually fucking comfortable to sleep on. Least it’s not too hot, he says to himself, somehow Rust has got a set up where the drafts run right through the house, cooling it down. He doesn’t sleep very well because of it, and stirs in the early morning, bare windows relentlessly letting in the beaming sun.

He gets out of his makeshift bed and stands at the doorway. The shack is quiet, Rust absent from his bed. Marty’s fears well within him and he’s got this terrible feeling like he’s going to walk into the bathroom and find a murder scene, or worse, a suicide. But he listens before he moves, slinks like a newly recruited cop and checks around. Rust's absent from the bathroom. The house is empty, bed made, clothes folded neat. He walks towards the back door, peering through the netted door to view his yard. He pushes outside and off in the corner of the yard stands a small shed, almost hidden by a draping tree. He walks toward it and the closer he gets, the more audible a whir is coming from within the shed.

The whirring gets louder and he’s still afraid. Rust should never have left him, never have let this insane man live by himself. He pushes open the door, clutching his hands over his ears. Rust stands over a slab of wood, slicing it with an automatic saw. Rust doesn’t notice Marty right away, sawdust spinning up into the air, a cloud of work. Marty moves closer and the movement before Rust startles him.

Rust switches off the machine, waits til the whirring slows to take off his earmuffs.

“You’re up early,” is all he says, wiping sweat off his forehead.

Marty walks toward Rust, coughing through the heavy air, “what are you doing?”

Rust shrugs, holds up a booklet showing a design of a chair, “gotta do something with my life if I can’t just drink all the god damn time,”

Marty laughs, “thought there was no point in being creative if it takes a lifetime to get good at it?”

Rust stretches his arms, his singlet lifting above his navel, “who said I was trying to be creative. Just passin’ the time.”

“You know what you should make instead? A bed frame, I got a spare mattress back home, that’d be a better substitute than sleeping on a pile of laundry.”

Rust looks up at Marty, his glassy eyes hidden beneath grey hair and Marty remembers years ago, decades ago, when Rust would look at him that way, eyes glistening, sparkling with adventure or intrigue or some shit. Back then, most of the time all Marty ever wanted to do was punch the look right out of Rust, but now it’s a welcoming sight, nostalgic.

“You want to stay another night,” Rust speaks evenly, a pronunciation of Rust’s words in a dialect of pseudo-statement-questions.

Marty scratches the back of his head, “man, not another night, my back’s too broken to go through that again. Next weekend though, I mean, I guess I’m free again.”

Rust quirks his eyebrow. From a stand below the workbench he grabs a bottle of beer and begins to chug it down.

“Really? Right in front of me?” Marty sighs, rounding the workbench and grabbing the bottle off his friend.

Rust scowls, tries to grab the bottle back, “come on, one last drink.”

Marty holds his ground, holds his territory and he’s fully expecting Rust to take him on, wrench the bottle out of his hands but Rust doesn’t, he’s holding back, holding close to Marty but he’s not making an effort to be brute.

“No more. And let this be a test. I’m going to go count the beer in your fridge and when I come back next weekend, if you’ve drunk a single drop I’ll kill you myself, got that Cohle?” Marty says.

Rust’s eye twitches, “is that right? How will you know I haven’t just drunk it all and replaced it?”

Marty looks Rust straight in the eyes, holds their gaze. In his peripheral vision he sees Rust lick his lips, that familiar jaw clench relaxes. He feels Rust’s body once tense, now loosen before him, his breathing steady, and Rust’s clutch on the bottle slips over Marty’s hands.

Marty shakes his head and composes himself, puts on a bad cop glare and says, “I’m a fucking detective Rust. Don’t even try it.”

 

    **7.**

He comes back the following weekend, backseat full of work because he just hasn’t had the motivation to do it. The first thing he does when he gets there is check the fridge. He’s about 99.5% sure that Rust hasn’t even touched the thing, but he wasn’t about to admit that Rust has always been the better detective than him. He’ll take a win when Rust allows him to.

Marty closes the fridge door and smiles gently at Rust. Lord does he know how hard it was to give up drinking, how annoying your friends and family can be about the whole quitting ordeal, ragging on about it every second of the day. Rust’s a hard bloke, strong and stubborn and Marty decided that he’s not going to be the one to pester him every second of the damned day. He’s gonna be the one to be there for him, be there for him now when he wasn’t before. That’s all the man needs, that’s all he needed when his family was turning him psycho.

Rust nods toward the living room, at a chair perched beside his bed, “I finished the chair.”

Marty rounds the counter dividing the room from being living room to kitchen, those damn open plan designs again. Marty observes the chair, hand under his chin, eyes squinting, “looks pretty damn good Rust, good craftsmanship.”

“It’s shit. Boring concept, bad output,” Rust says bluntly. He swallows visibly as he pushes himself off the wall, gestures Marty to follow him as he steps through into the bedroom.

Marty follows, and when he steps in he can’t believe his eyes. A queen sized bed frame sits against the wall of the small room. The wood is beautifully crafted, shaped and waxed dark wood, patterns carved into the headboard and backboard.

“No way, no _fucking_ way did you make this. You bought this?” Marty asks, running his fingers over the intricate carvings.

“Made it,” Rust says, lips tight like he’s embarrassed or something, “took all week but Marty, what else am I meant to do?”

Marty laughs, then smiles, he can’t stop, “Rust you’re a fucking natural. You could sell this!”

“I won’t, I made it for you.”

“No way, you’re going to make me sleep out on your crack den mattress while you sleep in here like a fucking king?” Marty laughs, but the way Rust looks at him makes him think he accused Rust of murder.

Rust crosses his arms tight, speaks in a strained voice, “I made it for _you_.”

Marty straightens up, hands on his hips as he pauses and frowns, “Thank you Rust, I mean it. That’s… This is amazing, I can’t believe you want me to stay so bad!”

Marty laughs but again it’s like he’s done the worst thing he could possibly do in Rust’s books, it’s like he withdraws in on himself. Rust’s always looked a little hunched but he’s always had an air of confidence around him, like he doesn’t give a fuck about what anyone thinks about him, says about him.

“Hey, hey I was just kidding around man,” Marty says.

He draws close to Rust, throws his arms around him and claps them on his back. Rust is a skeleton with rags for skin hanging off his bones and with his arms around Rust’s form it feels more like he’s holding the man in place, holding a sack of gold with holes poked through it. Rust starts to shake and Marty thinks he’s laughing, hopes he’s laughing, but then Rust presses his forehead in Marty’s shoulder and he starts to feel a wet patch form.

“Marty…” Rust whispers, raspy and hollow but in the space between them the sound echoes, ricochets against their bodies and pierces Marty’s heart.

“Yeah?” Marty scrapes the word out of his lungs.

“I’m so fucking lonely,” Rust retches.

Something splinters inside him and it’s like that voice recording clicks on again, he knows it’s him speaking but it doesn’t sound like him, doesn’t sound like the things he would usually say, “I know, me too.”

Rust shivers, pushes away from Marty, “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have done that,” he rubs his face with the sleeves of his denim jacket vigorously, buttons on the cuffs scratching his face.

Marty takes a step back, leans his weight on the edge of the bed frame, “it’s okay, it’s fine.”

He looks up at Rust but he has to look away because all he can think of is Rust’s wet, cut lips, skin so weak and papery thin. What happened to the times when he was attracted to girls with plump lips and big tits? He scratches the back of his head and stands up straight again, Rust stares at him blankly like nothing ever happened.

After a long silence Rust clears his throat, “will you still come and visit?”

Marty blinks, “of course.”

 

    **8.**

Audrey never had much to say to Marty but when she did it was always criticism. It's Marty's favourite line so her favourite to criticize; Marty always thought that a man without a family was lost, that men needed a wife to keep them grounded. But Marty never could quite wrap his head around why he didn’t want a wife all the time. Family was a 50/50 thing with him. Rust used to say that wanting a family, mateship, children; it’s part of his programming, that he’s programmed to think he needs it when it’s not for everyone. Rust claimed it shouldn’t be for anyone, a modest advocate of the anti-reproduction movement.

The deal was that he could see his family on the weekends, mostly Macie, Audrey when she feels like it, never Mags. They did speak on the phone occasionally, but only when Marty got bad, when he felt too detached from the world outside PI, like he had no one else to talk to. But because of Rust, he stops seeing them for a bit, the weekend being his only time to do anything really. After all, He’s made a promise to an old friend that he’s got to follow through with.

Seeing Rust on the weekend became a regular thing, something he looked forward to even. He brings up his spare mattress which he had managed to keep wedged in a cupboard back home, and made up Rust’s spare room to look a bit more liveable in. He helps Rust clean out the fridge, fills it up with food, and drink other than beer and actual fucking protein. In all honesty, Marty doesn’t feel like he does much, feels like he can probably do more but doesn’t want to step on Rust’s toes too much. When he visits, he gets pretty bored without a TV and honestly he’s got no excuse not to do a bit of work anyway. He’s glad to have Rust around, gets a second perspective on his work from Rust when he’s not too grumpy from not being able to have a single drop.

Working together again, it’s like old times. And on the drives back to the city he finds himself missing Rust’s company, back like he missed Maggie’s soft skin when they fucked in her Aunt’s cabin back when they were nineteen. Except of course, Rust and Marty aren’t fucking or anything, it’s just the feeling you know, being close to someone, someone you know and have known for years. They share history, share jokes and stories and understanding and knowledge and when Marty drives up the city streets he sometimes finds himself wanting to turn right back around. But it’s not like he can just call Rust, his company is a different sort of thing that the call history would consist of more silence than actual conversation. And that’s part of what Marty enjoys about being around Rust, that ability to sit in company, busy or inactive, pleasantly comfortable in the presence of a good friend.

And in all honesty he doesn’t even fully register that he’s thinking about Rust all the time. At work, at home, even when he’s with Rust. He’s thinking about him and it’s more than concern about rehabilitation or about general wellbeing, he’s thinking about Rust and how he wants to talk to him about this or that or get advice on this or get his opinion on this. And it really hits him in the face; since when did he want to talk to the guy so much? Since when did he want to be around him for more than he had to?

When the fuck did that happen?

 

    **9.**

Marty sits at the counter, forking around some spaghetti that’s cold and stiff now but his phone’s been ringing off the hook and looking at the caller ID, he knows what it’s going to be about.

Rust hoists himself off his mattress and slowly eases himself into the stool beside Marty. He picks up Marty’s phone, reading the caller ID, it’s Maggie.

“Shouldn’t you answer her?” Rust says, placing the phone on the counter.

Marty shrugs, “I’ll talk to her later,”

Rust grunts, then folds his arms, leaning on the counter, “the longer you put it off, the worse it’s gonna get.”

Marty pushes the bowl of spaghetti away and turns to face Rust, “Don’t you think I know that Rust? Look, I already know what she wants to say to me and all I’m saying is, it’s my weekend off and I don’t wanna talk about it.”

Rust has always been a good detective, “you haven’t seen your daughters in weeks.”

Marty doesn’t say anything.

“Marty, you know I appreciate you comin’ out here to see me but I don’t want to keep you from your family. I’ll be fine.”

Marty squints, “no you won’t.”

Rust sighs, “look, I got a proposal to make but I don’t know how you’re gonna feel about it.”

Rust hesitates and Marty says, “spit it out man.”

Rust threads his fingers around Marty’s hand, holds it and it’s the most intimate touch Marty’s ever felt from Rust, “you spend enough time here that your office is practically already here. I was thinkin’, you could swap it so you see your family on the weekends and keep an eye on me the rest?”

Marty’s hand in Rust’s feels not his own, alien flesh and sweat and slippery blood threatening to burst out of his skin. He’s heard Rust correct, right? Has the man just asked him to move in with him? He looks down at Rust’s hand over his, secure and still and that confidence is back about Rust’s figure, sure of himself, like he already knows Marty’s answer.

Marty holds Rust’s sight and beneath that deadpan façade lies a soft, gentle man, earnest and considerate and Marty doesn’t even flinch when Rust leans forward, presses their lips together, he knew it was coming. He isn’t a PI for nothing.

He thought Rust’s skin would be scratchy and flaky, just like how it looks, but it’s not. It’s soft, a different kind of soft than a twenty-year old’s, but Rustin Cohle soft, unfathomable by anyone else. Marty can’t deny he’s thought about kissing Rust before, thought about it countless times. He has to admit to himself that he even thought about it back in ’95, back when he wanted everything all at once. So now, in 2013, he kisses Rust like it’s their history compounded into this one passionate kiss. He nestles his fingers in Rust’s hair, wiry but silky. Slips his other hand under Rust’s singlet, he’s always known Rust keeps his shape well, never knew what it was like to feel it with his own hands, tightly kept muscles, well-formed over years of careful cultivation.

They break away momentarily, take a breather, and Rust chuckles, an alien sound and Marty can’t help but grin, sure that it’s going to crack his face. Rust holds Marty’s head in his hands and they press their foreheads together, breathing heavily, taking in each other’s scent.

“You’re a fucking awful kisser,” Marty laughs, playfully rubs Rust’s side.

Rust pecks Marty on the lips, then says in a drawl, “so is that a yes?”

Marty quirks his eyebrows, as if to ask, _really_?

“Makes sense to me.”

 

    **10.**

And in all honesty, it really does make sense. Marty really has practically moved his office’s paperwork to his room at Rust’s. Not on purpose, probably. He never really needed it in the first place, had rented it in case he needed to have meetings there but his clients had almost always requested to meet in a public space. He signed out of the contract for the office but he kept on renting the flat in the city for visiting his family. He didn’t want to be the kind of dad that needed to crash at his own daughter’s place for the night, that wasn’t his thing.

Rust’s house began to feel like home to him now. It was the place he was always itching to be at, maybe it had a little something to do with the fact that Rust was there too. Didn’t mean living with Rust was the easiest thing in the world. He worked at a bar four nights a week, always came home angry and tired and Marty couldn’t really complain, sounds like a shitty job to work at, man’s got license to prattle on about it. But it was the insomnia that really got to Marty. Rust tried to keep it under wraps, he really did, but god did he _not_ appreciate being woken up at 3am to sounds of splintering wood.

It’s a Tuesday night and Rust’s at it again in the shed and Marty strongly wishes Rust could spend his time making a new shed that’s a mile away from the shack, just so Marty can have some peace at night. He hasn’t said anything to Rust yet, and the more he waits for the whirring to die down the angrier he gets because it goes on and on.

Marty throws himself out of bed, throws on a dressing gown and stomps outside. He’s got his fists set to give Rust a piece of mind. The sounds of machinery gets exponentially louder and Marty bares his teeth, slamming his hands against his ears as he charges on toward the shed. He barges through the door, glee trickling inside him as Rust looks visibly startled. Rust switches off the machinery, confused.

“Do you know what time it is Rust?” Marty barks over the waning sounds of the saw.

Rust shrugs and lifts off his earmuffs, his singlet sticking to his sweaty stomach, Marty can’t help but stare and it’s like that one image turns off every other image, every other thought and Marty’s not even angry anymore, he’s just bemused, “fuck, do you do this on purpose?”

Rust fixes his singlet as he watches Marty draw closer to him, “do what? The insulation panels are almost done, just gotta - oh…”

Marty drops to his knees, lifts up Rust’s singlet and licks the bare skin. Rust’s muscles tense at the touch, but he leans into Marty’s kisses, dropping a hand to Marty’s shoulder. Marty caresses Rust’s ass, easily feeling the contours of his skin, the man probably doesn’t even own underwear anymore, filthy bastard.

“Marty…” Rust moans as Marty cups Rust’s cock through his sweatpants, “you sure you want to do this?”

“Yeah, don’t you?” Marty quips, hoisting down Rust’s pants.

Rust curves his back, stretches his arms beneath Marty’s dressing gown, feels Marty’s bony spine, tight muscles, feels him breathe, “for so long,”

At that, Marty feels that familiar pang of guilt but tries to squash it by taking Rusts cock in his mouth. Rust groans and leans into Marty’s touch, dragging a finger around Marty’s ear, tickling the sensitive spots that gets Marty to twitch. Marty tries to adopt Rust’s glassy eyed, concentrating demeanour as he takes Rust all the way down his throat. It’s kinda hard to concentrate when Rust is making noises Marty thought he’d never bear witness to.

Rust grabs Marty’s shoulder and pulls him up, lets out an exasperated gasp when he realizes Marty’s mouth can’t be at two places at once. He kisses Marty, pressing his body against the other man’s, leaning against his workbench for support. Rust slips his hands down Marty’s boxers and begins working on Marty’s cock. He feels Marty’s hand on his own and between awkward making out and hand thrusting they find a rhythm that works.

Marty moans, grasping Rust’s back as he comes in his boxers, a white haze blanking over his vision. For moments he doesn’t think, doesn’t breathe, just falls into Rust’s arms, floating in limbo. Rust comes shortly after, a grunting, rippling effect on his body and Marty’s so happy he laughs.

“I feel like a fucking teenager,” Marty smiles, then kisses Rust’s neck.

“You _are_ a kid.”

Marty nibbles at Rust’s skin, “hey, I’m older than you.”

Rust wraps his arms around Marty, envelopes him in heat and sweat and love, and says, “quit calling me old then Marty.”

“Feeling a bit sensitive about your own mortality Rust?”

Rust takes a deep breath, and on the same air he seemingly speaks without pause, “it’s funny Marty, I used to never think about it.”

“What?” Marty asks, pulling Rust’s shoulder to force the man to look at him.

“About death. My life’s purpose was to bear witness to humanity’s downfall. Didn’t matter when death came for me, I knew what was gonna happen to us all anyway. Now - fuck, sometimes I wish I hadn’t met you.”

“Asshole –“

“Wait, Marty let me finish. Now I don’t have a fucking clue what I’m meant to do with myself. Direction didn’t used to fucking matter because all I did was work, drink and dream. Now there’s you, and I haven’t thought about it ever because I didn’t think it would ever happen. You and me. I wanted it to, we had history, you know, there were times when we messed around, sometimes I reckon you forgot that.”

“That was years ago –“

“Shut up Marty, I haven’t finished-” Rust says, clutching tight onto Marty’s tense figure, “we’re both old now. Mortality is something I think about more than I should but it bugs me Marty. I finally have you now and I don’t have much time left. I’m trying to imagine the future and I can’t stop thinking about death.”

“Fuck, I know you Rust. You’re no coward and you’re the most brutally honest man I’ve ever met. And maybe you’re right, maybe we only have twenty, thirty years left on this doomed planet but so what? But you’ve got me, the biggest screw up in history and I’m going to make the most of it. Day by day. We’re gonna fuck like teenagers til we die.”

“Just like that huh?” Rust says, a smirk growing on his face, “life’s so simple for you Marty.”

Marty frowns, “you should try it out sometime. Look, everyone’s afraid of death. It’s a human thing to do. Fuck, I know we’re old, my daughters laugh at me for having my mid-life sexual awakening. But face it Cohle, I’m not going anywhere anytime soon. I’m a pretty healthy man, you’re no longer drinking. We’re going to last a while. Next is getting you to quit smoking.

Rust glares at Marty, “I’m not an addict.”

“Yeah sure, says the bloke who’s been smoking for forty odd years. Come on,” Marty jokes, wrapping an arm around Rust, “come to bed now, I want to show you something you’re going to like more than smoking.”

 

**(Bonus ending!)**

“Remind me why we’re doing this again?” Rust asks as he shuffles after Marty in the electronics warehouse.

Marty waves off another salesperson and barks angrily over his shoulder, “quit your sulking Rust, we’re just buying a TV.”

“ _We_ are? I’m not paying for that shit.”

“Fine, _I_ am buying it, may as well since it’s _for_ me. If I’m going to live in your house there’s gotta be a TV. I never did understand why you didn’t have one in the first place.”

“I’ve never had one.”

Marty stops dead in his tracks, “What, _never_?”

Rust opens his mouth but Marty throws his hand up, “nah, no not today honey, I don’t want to listen to another monologue.”

“What, am I Shakespeare, _honey_?” Rust spits.

Marty glares at Rust. He picks today of all days to be a kid.

“Excuse me, can I help you two gentlemen today?” A salesperson says from behind them.

Marty spins around, face red, “won’t you fuckers leave us alone? I’m just here to buy a TV not anything else so stop fucking telling me about all the offers you’re doing okay? Fuck!”

The salesperson begins to become teary eyed, and Rust places a hand on Marty’s shoulder.

“Marty, calm down,” Rust says.

Marty flinches away but before he can reply, another salesperson runs up to them and says, “listen to your husband sir, I’m going to have to ask you to leave if you’re going to speak to my staff members like that.”

At that, Marty is stunned, allowing Rust to steer him away. Marty’s in a haze and nothing registers to him until he sees the gleaming red of Rust’s truck coming into view.

“Wait, wait we didn’t even get a TV,” Marty says at the car door.

Rust blinks, “Marty, you made a staff member cry. You are not going back in there. We’ll go another time.”

Marty stands by the door, hand on the hot metal, and he thinks back to what just happened, “fuck, she thinks we’re married.”

Rust slips into the car and he leans over to push open the door for Marty. Marty crawls in and Rust says with a smirk on his face, “Well, we practically are.”

 


End file.
